But the flesh is weak

'Give us some more blood, Chekov.' 'A little won't hurt, Chekov.' 'Take off your shirt, Chekov.' 'Roll over, Chekov.' 'Breathe deeply, Chekov.' 'Blood sample, Chekov.' 'Marrow sample, Chekov.' 'Skin sample, Chekov.' If...IF... I live long enough, I'm going to run out of samples!

You'll live.

Oh yes, I'll live, but I won't enjoy it!

So I survived. Not that it was pleasant. My day started early, with a two-mile walk to the UCSF shuttle that took me to Parnassus for an appointment they rescheduled earlier, because there weren't enough nurses. I arrived and the staff hadn't even shown up yet.

Every time you go to the clinic, they start out by checking your height, weight, blood pressure, blood oxygen level, and pulse rate, as well as taking liberal blood samples. I have very deep, thin, small veins (compounded by a low pulse rate and abnormally low blood pressure), which hate surrendering their tiny drops of blood and collapse without the slightest provocation; so taking blood is always a bit of a pincushion voodoo exercise, leaving my arms bruised and the nurses frustrated.

That over with, I was taken back to a cramped room with a bed. I passed by two nurses in heated argument - one desperately trying to run home to retrieve forgotten keys. I sat down on the hospital bed and in walked the keyless and distracted nurse. She started mining for a good vein for my IV. With little success. After nearly an hour of poking, slapping, tourniqueting, squeezing, palpating, and puncturing, at last she hit pay dirt. Then I listened to a dispassionate recitation of my laundry list of drugs for the morning.

A short explanation here. I hate drugs. I mean, I HATE drugs. I don't take Tylenol for minor aches and pains and I'm leery of cold medicine even when my head's exploding. My wisdom teeth and biopsy were both done under nothing but local anasthetic. I don't like surrendering control of my body to anything, particularly some inanimate liquid, powder, or pill. I want to be aware.

So, the endless recital of mind-altering substances wasn't exactly reassuring for me. Particularly when they got to the Lidocaine, the local anasthetic. Local anasthetics aren't very friendly to me - I usually require about 3 times the normal dose, it wears off incredibly quickly, and leaves me feeling extremely nauseous. Luckily, the nurses and doctors listen to me now when I tell them that anasthetics aren't that effective on me - I vividly remember a dental cavity filled under, effectively, no anasthetic as a child.

They started with the Adipan (anti-anxiety) and morphine. The nurse kept lobbying the nurse practitioner who was performing the procedure to increase my dosages, and I kept objecting. The morphine crashed over me, leaving me barely able to flip over on the bed and my head erupting in my hands. "You're not supposed to feel anything," the nurse reassured me blindly.

The Lidocaine shot into my lower back with two tremendous, lasting stings, angry wasps attacking me and then sticking around for the party. I turned up the volume on my iPod until Jars of Clay drowned out the nurse, NP, and lab tech endlessly verbalizing the play-by-play behind me for my sure edification.

Jesus' blood never failed me yet, never failed me yet...

Silent tears soaked my face as the morphine continued to sizzle through my brain and the NP began drilling in my pelvis. First, a hole is drilled. This you feel as a crushing pressure on your lower back, until the bone is broken through, at which point a stabbing pain explodes into you. Once the hole is drilled, the aspiration is performed, then the biopsy, necessitating more searing pain and immense pressure as the marrow, the bone chip, and finally the drill exit your body.

This one thing I know, that He loves me so...

When it's over and bits of my insides are being sliced, stained, and immortalized on small clear slides by the lab tech, I'm rolled over to put direct pressure on the extraction site. The bed is raised, lowered, folded, and bent, a Sleep Number origami that moves none too gently. We all laugh as the bed crankily rejects the contortions, suddenly dropping beneath me. I don't have long to recover because I have to catch the shuttle to my next appointment.

Jesus' blood won't fail me yet, won't fail me yet, won't fail me yet...

(To be continued...)